


Manic

by chantefable



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 1960s, 20th Century, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Ambiguous Relationships, Art History, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Cold War, Falling In Love, M/M, Mystery, Partnership, Post-Canon, Seduction, Spies & Secret Agents, Suspense, THRUSH, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya Kuryakin is a THRUSH agent.</p><p>(In which Napoleon Solo has feelings and appreciates beauty. This is subtly yet expertly exploited by an international shadow organization.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Manic

Occasionally, Napoleon Solo was ready to admit that he was driven by an eerie kind of mania. Its exact nature eluded him, but there was no doubt that he had been propelled by some manic intent all his life: to get out of poverty, to avoid scarcity, to avoid mindless, monotonous work that brought one neither respect nor satisfaction; to feast his eyes on foreign countries and unknown, beautiful sights, even if he had to be blinking back smoke and blood to do so; to get his large, workman-like hands on things that were infinitely precious and fragile, and to consume them in any way imaginable. The only way that he could conceive of was theft and ownership, and so he took, took, and took, stealing paintings, sculptures and jewelry until the fine quintessence of beauty became absorbed in him, almost against Napoleon’s will. Knowledge and sophistication were akin to viruses; they colonized Napoleon, body and soul, and made him crave even more. 

Soon, the mania transcended physical objects and small-scale, bourgeois ideas of possession. Gold and diamonds, marble and canvas – all that could be fenced, with various degrees of difficulty, bartered or even simply given away, but in exchange, what Napoleon gained were possibilities. Frequently in the form of money, but most importantly, in the form of experience. The mania intensified, the craving for aesthetic and intellectual pursuits persisted. He wanted to discover all the colors of Rembrandt’s palette, to unveil all the shapes of Brunelleschi’s designs, to rationalize all the spectrum of light as presented by a handful of exquisitely cut De Beers diamonds. Napoleon’s appetites grew Gargantuan, and owning a few pieces of art was no longer enough. His bespoke, loudly elegant suits stopped feeling like mere camouflage; his thief’s cache became a vital necessity, not as an emergency financial reserve but as a spiritual inoculation of sorts, an undisclosed mix of avidly beloved treasures. 

But what mattered most was that desire became a lifestyle and a philosophy to Napoleon; that all the beauty of the world had to pass through his hands, had to be lovingly admired and acknowledged. It was all quite beyond his control. Napoleon wanted to not simply be good-looking, well-dressed, and considered attractive himself: his ego demanded that he acquire insights into the most stunning, exquisite things and steal their light to hold it within.

It was a chronic condition that could not be denied. 

No therapy, no matter how harsh or unorthodox – from the US criminal justice system to the decidedly phony branch of pseudoscience that called itself modern psychiatry, from the Central Intelligence Agency’s leash to the yoke of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement – could cure him. Napoleon craved art, for its own sake and for what it did to him. Artful beauty was keeping him alive; like an ouroboros, hungry appreciation of everything that was beautiful and cultured turned into desire, into appreciation of everyone who was beautiful, meaningful, complicated or simple. Into desire. 

(One would think that espionage, with the added weight of coercion and subordination, was exhausting enough, and that the combined lunacy of the Red Scare and the Lavender Scare during Napoleon’s time with the CIA would take its toll. While serving his sentence with the intelligence, Napoleon did dirty work all over the world, earning himself the reputation of the most effective agent through infiltration, disinformation, and elimination missions from Lebanon to the Caribbean. And it would have been easier had he been a machine without feelings or questions, without longings of his own, however disguised. But Napoleon found that he could no sooner give up art and beauty in all their mutable forms than he could separate his soul from his body. He’d rather simply blow his brains out with a 9mm Browning.)

Napoleon could not resist composition, color, and shape; he melted faced with architecture, paintings and gems; he had to open doors, stand under arches, explore staircases; he wanted to kiss gold-set sapphires and wide blue eyes of fair-haired handsome men; he had to take Degas’ ballet dancers out of their frames and peel women out of their Dior skirts.

Therefore, it was perhaps inevitable that Napoleon Solo had come to crave Illya Kuryakin.

The tall Russian loaned to UNCLE by the Committee for State Security was definitely a work of art in his own right. Over the course of several joint missions – first Rome, then Istanbul, then Singapore, then Rabat – knowing him became positively essential to Napoleon’s well-being. Illya Kuryakin was not only a constant companion, he was a constantly changing puzzle, and Napoleon would have had an easier time saying _no_ to an allegedly impenetrable strongroom.

It was as if someone had figured out everything that Napoleon Solo could have ever possibly wanted and turned it into a living, breathing person. It probably said a lot of queer things about Napoleon that this person turned out to be a study in contradictions.

Kuryakin was mysterious, a quality Napoleon normally only tolerated in women. Kuryakin’s rage was an on/off switch with no safety, and it was impossible to predict the outcome; Kuryakin was annoying and very vocal about his own annoyances, especially when those concerned Napoleon; Kuryakin seemed to have reluctant respect for Napoleon, with some reservations, but no spark of interest. None. Such an awful mix of flaws was more than Napoleon would have stood to bear from any woman, even if she had been Jean Shrimpton. 

And yet he continued to covet Kuryakin with a manic, physical desperation. Illya, whose patronymic Napoleon was still butchering at every turn, was stunning. Napoleon wanted to unwrap him, take off his shoulder holster and turtleneck, make him shed underwear and all modesty, and watch. Watch to his heart’s content, because Kuryakin was a work of art. Napoleon wanted to learn what it was, exactly. Socialist realism? He was so strong and well-made, Vuchetich’s monumental sculpture came to mind. The way he moved, all indomitable force. _Let Us Beat Swords into Plowshares_ in the United Nations garden, that was Napoleon’s occasional thought; and sometimes, he thought other things, the swords and the plowing decidedly euphemistic. Or, perhaps Kuryakin was more like a Gustav Klutsis montage, bright colors and defiant constructivism.

Indeed, there was something shocking lurking inside Kuryakin, like an electrical charge that had yet to hit Napoleon. Yes. He was powerful, dynamic, full of inward distortions, hidden depths. What were those perspectives that clashed against each other in Illya Kuryakin? His childhood, his love for his family, his exemplary service, his openness combined with manifest principles? Something else, a live wire underneath? Napoleon was plagued by curiosity.

From Alsace to Transvaal, from West Papua to Andalusia, he was drawn to his assigned partner. At times, Napoleon could swear that Kuryakin was teasing him on purpose: the way he was unselfconscious and confident in his body, walking around the safe-houses in various states of undress if the situation demanded it – and there seemed to be a lot of situations that demanded it, from laundry to minor wounds to it being _damn hot in here, Cowboy_ ; the way his body was a solid wall of protection and his hands a deft source of support in the field; the way he was downright effusive about companionship sometimes, a generous arm thrown around Napoleon’s shoulders here, a casual embrace there, and occasionally, after a too close brush with death or a too deep peek into a bottle of warm Polish vodka, the traditional three kisses on the mouth. 

It was all putting a strain on Napoleon’s carefully constructed modern American masculinity. At times, he gave in to fits of paranoia, because Kuryakin’s behavior was awfully like a long con, a deliberate seduction. But why? There were days when Napoleon’s fingers itched to open some bank vaults and grasp an emerald necklace or two, just to hold onto them and soothe his nerves, like one would with a rosary. But he resisted the allure of petty transgression and dutifully remained in the field, doing his part in UNCLE operations. If Kuryakin realized how awfully distracted his partner was sometimes, he never said anything.

Not to Waverly, at least.

As a unit, they were not as successful as one might have expected them to be. The CIA’s most effective agent, the KGB’s best – one would have thought they would prove to be unstoppable, but no, far from it. Even with Miss Teller’s logistical support, it was same old, gritty espionage work as always: with failures, mistakes, and near misses. Luck was on their side for now, both of them alive, not too many new holes in their bodies. But luck was fickle. _O Fortuna, velut luna statu variabilis_. Once, Napoleon made a live drop in Helsinki in the middle of an ongoing mission, and Miss Teller’s perfectly painted mouth was tight with tension. She was concerned about the chances of the operation being compromised. Napoleon was concerned about Illya, who had stayed behind to monitor the site. He did not stay long, and when he got back to his partner, Illya was gruff and frustrated because the attaché and his scientist wife had apparently disappeared without a trace. 

It was stupid to seek to comfort him after that, but the following week in Amsterdam, Napoleon stole a grand complication watch from a Swiss banker and casually left it in Illya’s hotel room. Picking the lock was easy; not taking advantage of Illya’s absence to sit down on his unmade bed and do something shamefully sentimental, like fall face-first into Illya’s pillow and just not think for a while, was anything but.

Sometimes, Napoleon worried when Illya went out, meeting strange women in strange cities. Perhaps not only women. But he always came back safe, alive, and what right did Napoleon have to demand that Illya left his very natural urges unsatisfied? They were adults, experienced agents, they knew all about reasonable risk. Of course, Napoleon never followed him; Illya’s short, oblique explanations were enough to understand everything and leave him be. And if Napoleon sometimes lay in bed twisted in knots, awake, wanting and waiting for Illya who always came back weary, as if every one of these experiences was something terribly important – be it Spain or South Africa, Canada or Colombia – then it didn’t matter. At all. Napoleon himself went out, touched living skin the way he would touch marble or wood, stared at the flecks of color in women’s irises the way he would memorize an artist’s palette, and took, and took, and took.

What he truly desired was right there, just out of reach, and could not be had.

One day, in Sao Paulo, when their covers were blown and the assignment was failed from start to finish, Napoleon questioned his sanity. It was not supposed to happen. It was _ugly_. It was illogical. Everything went wrong; the entire operation in Brazil turned into the exact opposite of what Napoleon had wanted and planned for with such diligence for such a very long time. He desperately wondered if perhaps Miss Teller had been right all along, that there was some nefarious scheme at work, infiltration or sabotage, because botched missions were one thing but this mind-blowing annihilation was something else. Luckily, Illya was still a reliable presence at his side as they made it to the outskirts of the city – beaten, bedraggled, having lost civilian assets, resources and the device with the information they were supposed to retrieve. 

They made it and got into the getaway car, but Napoleon still couldn’t stop shaking after the last skirmish. He was sure that he had missed something, that in his prolonged desirous distraction, he had looked past something very important happening right under his nose. Hysterically, he wondered if this was what Hitler’s intelligence’s experience against SMERSH had been like during World War II, when they had considered missions satisfactory if their losses had been less than ninety percent. 

Now, it seemed like UNCLE was in a similar position, but what was the counterforce? Was there really an organization that subverted their actions?

He changed the ammunition clip in his gun, blinking back sweat, while Illya drove them further away from the city. They sped past the buildings that were stark against the vibrant landscape, and Napoleon became eerily convinced that something was wrong.

The suspicion was akin to breakbone fever; or perhaps it was the adrenaline rush that left Napoleon feeling hot, sore, and exhausted. He breathed in, tried to focus on the gorgeous line of the horizon and the beautiful, rich light, but all that he could smell was gunpowder and all that he could see were jumbled, oddly distorted flashbacks to microfilms, mission reports, and his partner’s conspicuous absences. Napoleon’s head lolled to the side as he was overcome by a wave of nausea.

Illya’s eyes were so vividly blue when he smiled. Like _The Lake_ by Czeslaw Znamierowski.

Napoleon watched his strong, long fingers on the steering wheel until his vision blurred completely. The last thing he thought of was the sharp stab of a needle during their earlier scuffle at the warehouse downtown, and how close Illya had been, behind Napoleon’s back like always.

Making him feel safe and precious.

**Author's Note:**

> Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn: Dutch painter and etcher; influential prolific artist of the Dutch Golden Age.
> 
> Filippo di ser Brunellesco di Lippo Lapi: Italian designer, architect, engineer, planner and construction supervisor; the oldest amongst the founding fathers of the Renaissance.
> 
> De Beers: private diamond mining and trading company founded in 1888; throughout the 20th century, carried out global monopoloid practices, using its dominant position to manipulate the international diamond market through price fixing, antitrust behavior, etc.
> 
> Red Scare: promotion of fear of a potential rise of communism or radical leftism as used by anti-leftist proponents; here – Second Red Scare (1947-1957) or McCarthyism.
> 
> Lavender Scare: promotion of fear and persecution of homosexuals in the US and the UK in the 1950s, parallel to McCarthyism.
> 
> Edgar Degas: French artist whose paintings, drawings, prints and sculpture frequently center on the subject of dance; considered to be one of the founders of Impressionism.
> 
> Christian Dior: fashion house founded by eponymous designer in 1946, with financial support of Marcel Boussac, textile magnate, publisher and racehorse breeder; after Dior’s death in 1957, the creative designer position was held by Yves Saint-Laurent, then Marc Roger Maurice Louis Bohan.
> 
> Jean Shrimpton: English model, actress and fashion icon of Swinging London; muse of photographer David Bailey.
> 
> Yevgeny Viktorovich Vuchetich: Soviet monumental sculptor and artist; Let Us Beat Swords into Plowshares (1957, donated to the UN by the USSR in 1958) – allegory of converting weapons and military technologies for peaceful applications and the benefit of mankind, part of the United Nations Art Collection.
> 
> Gustav Klutsis: Latvian photographer, painter and designer; one of the pioneers of avant-garde Constructivism.
> 
> Carmina Burana, or Songs from Beuern: a manuscript of various texts from the 11th-13th centuries found in the Benedictine monastery of Benediktbeuern, Bavaria, one of the most important collections of Goliard and vagabond songs and a reflection of an international European movement; O Fortuna – a medieval Latin Goliardic poem, a lament on changeable, inexorable fate.
> 
> Live drop: in espionage tradecraft, individuals meeting in person to exchange information or items.
> 
> Complication: in horology, any additional feature in a timepiece beyond the display of hours and minutes; grand complications – complex watches with several complications (at least three, with special timing, astronomical and striking complications), more difficult to design, assemble and repair.
> 
> SMERSH (СМЕРШ, acronym of _death to spies_ ): umbrella organization for military counter-intelligence agencies of the USSR during World War II.
> 
> Breakbone fever: mosquito-borne tropical disease caused by the dengue virus; causes fever, headache, muscle and joint pains, and rash; can develop into dengue shock syndrome or life-threatening dengue hemorrhagic fever.
> 
> Czeslaw Znamierowski: popular and prolific Soviet painter, especially in the genre of panoramic landscape, whose art was frequently sold outside the Soviet bloc, e.g. to France, Germany, Sweden, Spain, Canada and the US; The Lake (oil on canvas, 45 cm x 56 cm, 1961) – a lyrical landscape in a predominantly blue palette.


End file.
